Don’t Say a Word: A gripping psychological thriller from the author of The Good Mother

‘Mum! Are you coming?’

OK. Focus on the now. I think I washed the swim kit. Pretty sure I washed it.

‘Mum, you have got it, haven’t you? We’re going to be late. I’ve got to see Chris about the trains before the bell.’

‘It’s OK, I’ll give you a lift.’ Maybe he can explain what he means about trains when we’re in the car. Probably something else I’ve got to make. Sorry – help him make.

I take the opportunity to ruffle his hair as I come level with him – it looks so adorably curly this morning. Josh rolls his eyes at me and ducks slightly. ‘You always give me a lift. I don’t know why you pretend I might cycle there one day – on my own, shock horror!’

The search for the swimming trunks and towel (and oh, crap – goggles!) stops momentarily. Since when were ten-year-olds so wise? Does he see right through me? That every day there is some kind of excuse why I have to run him to school, not let him walk or ride the fifteen minutes with his friends?

But he doesn’t know why. It’s fine. That’s key. If he thinks I’m mad or overprotective or scatty, I’m OK with that. Normal boring-mum annoyance. Nothing more. And I love the routine. Every second spent with my son, at home, in the car. Why would I give that up? Even if spending time with him were the only factor.

I poke my head into Josh’s room, hoping (dreading) I might see a still-festering swim kit curled up on the floor.

Nope.

‘Mum, if I’m not there he’ll give the trains to someone else! Come on!’

Ah, sounds like I don’t need to make the trains then. Good.

‘It’s all right, Josh. Don’t panic.’

Living room/kitchen – sorry, studio area. No sign of towels or trunks.

Oh, hold on – there. What’s that on the radiator behind the sofa?

Trunks. Half off the radiator. Half dry. And therefore half wet. Damn it.

‘Right, here we go, Josh; there are your trunks. Let’s find the rest.’

‘But they’re wet!’

‘And so will you be when you get into the pool. Try not to worry. Three, two, one – goggles search!’

And we run round the flat waving our arms above our heads shouting, ‘Goggles, goggles, goggles!’ I’ve taught him that the best way to look for something that’s hiding in plain sight is just to shout as loud as you can. It’s sure to lure it out. Plus we have fun.

It works. A giggling Josh returns with goggles. I find a bag and a slightly damp towel hanging off the bike in the hall. Not perfect, but it will do.

We’re out the door, into the car, on our way. Josh gushes about why getting the spare Lego train that his friend has will be so life-changing. I didn’t even know spare Lego was a thing. But then, Josh at ten is so different from me at ten. Thank God. As often as I dare, I flick a glance at him in the rear-view mirror. His face is so beautiful. The cutest little freckle – just one – on his cheek. And how did his eyes get so brown? Like two lovely shiny conkers, when he’s happy. Which is most of the time.

I give what I hope is an imperceptible sigh of relief. I’ve done it for another morning. I’ve created an environment where the biggest crisis is some damp trunks, and I’m now ferrying him to a safe place where he has friends. With spare Lego. It must be within me, this mothering. Because I sure as hell didn’t get a good example. Examples. All those ‘mothers’. Just not the one I needed.

Anyway, look – school gates.

‘Look, look, there’s Chris, and he’s got the train!’

‘Have a nice day, Joshy!’

‘Mum, it’s Josh at school, OK – I’m ten, you know!’

But he returns my kiss before he jumps out of the car. I watch him as he runs up to a similarly aged boy, and they stand in serious, private conversation, like a couple of dealers. The goods swap hands. Someone honks a horn behind me. I’m double-parked again. But let them honk. If they knew, they would understand.

And now, to work. Again, a blessing. Because really, who’d have thought it?

Chapter 2 (#ulink_cfd329c9-e1b4-58b2-9079-53f3478dffa1)

There’s a little car park in the courtyard behind our office. I was so pleased when I found that out. I didn’t know, when I came to interview. I had to get the bus. I couldn’t stand it. Waiting at the bus stop, I felt so vulnerable. Had I really left Chloe behind? What if one of Mick’s men spotted me?

Once the bus arrived, I would head straight for the back so that no one could sit behind me. Then I’d worry it would mean I couldn’t get off the bus quickly if someone saw me (proper me). So I’d dart from seat to seat. Bus driver must have thought I was mad. I thought I was mad. That it was all too much. They did tell me, when it all started, ‘You might find this a struggle.’ Masters of understatement.

So, yeah, it’s good there’s a car park. Good I was able to negotiate a car (not from work, from the other lot).

I check my make-up in the flip-down mirror. Good. Professional not-quite-lawyer. Haven’t achieved eye liner. Don’t think I ever have since Josh was born. Really wasn’t a priority early on – you reassess. Besides. I think I used a lifetime of it back then. Me at ten – vamping it up in a park with some White Lightning. Josh – well, you know, you saw him. He thinks parks are for feeding ducks and sliding on zip-wires.

Fluff my hair up – rocking the sharp blonde bob, if I do say so myself. Should probably take the sunglasses off the top of it for the office though, cool as they look. The usual earrings, silver more tarnished than sparkling. I should upgrade them. But they were from Mum. They’ve survived enough attempts at being torn out in anger, over the years. Now, they’re staying. Even though I had to go.

Oh, but look! Toothpaste on my jacket. Shit. I spit on my finger and rub at the stain. It gets worse. Bugger. Right, let’s hope no one wants to meet with me today – the jacket’s coming off. It’s not the Eighties, anyway. As much as I like the armour, I don’t have to power dress every day: Luton’s best legal executive doesn’t need shoulder pads. Sorry. Lu’on’s best. Drop the t. Do the glottal stop. It means fewer questions. Don’t need to do the whole ‘We lived in Leeds’ routine. Again.

I ditch my jacket. It exposes the fragile cotton threads of the friendship bracelet Josh made for me when he was seven. Blue, white, and red. I’ve safeguarded it like the most expensive Rolex – and for me, it’s as much of a status symbol. If anyone wants to mock it, let them. I grab my bag and jump out of the car.

I run straight into Tim, the firm’s newest partner.

‘Jen!’

‘Sorry, Tim. Sorry. I didn’t see you.’

‘Ah, I move silently – appear when you least expect it.’

Something about the way he says that gives me a little shiver. I wish I had my jacket with me again.

But the moment goes, because he carries on talking.

‘I wanted to see you, actually, Jen. New case I need you to help me on. If you’ve got capacity?’

‘Great! Yeah, of course.’

‘Excellent. Let’s speak later. It’s almost made for you.’

I nod. ‘Perfect.’ Of course it’s made for me. Because it’s bound to involve some crappy admin running around, which is what they all think is made for me. Even new hires, like Tim. Perfect. Thanks so much …

He holds the back door open and gestures for me to go inside.

I half-curtsey a ‘thanks’ and duck into the building.

One of my safe havens.

It has been, for the last four years. Thanks to Bill, the head of the firm. He knows, of course. Some of it, anyway. Trustworthy lawyer. They thought it was fine to tell him. Said he wouldn’t tell anyone else. I was against it (of course). I didn’t like that when I looked into his eyes he was seeing two of me. And judging me, probably. Thinking I’d done things that I hadn’t. But. I didn’t have any other choices, did I? If I wanted to do something with the college diploma I’d clawed to achieve. Even if ninety-nine per cent of the time it is the less-than-perfect crummy admin jobs none of the ‘real’ lawyers want to do.